


Bored

by Boton



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Boredom, British Army L9A1, Canon Compliant, Gen, Humor, John is a very bored doctor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-13
Updated: 2016-09-13
Packaged: 2018-08-14 21:53:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8030182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boton/pseuds/Boton
Summary: Even John Watson sometimes gets bored.
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and his universe are the creation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Sherlock is the creation of the BBC and its partners, and of co-creators Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. This work is for my pleasure and that of my readers; I am not profiting from the intellectual property of those creators listed above.
Rated T for gun violence against an innocent spray painted smiley face.  This takes place some unspecified time after HoB.





	Bored

Sherlock Holmes was bored.

Not just kind of bored or rather bored, but stupendously, mind-numbingly bored. He hadn’t had a decent case in days; weeks, really, if he thought about it. And it wasn’t as if he wasn’t trying: he’d solved nearly everything that had come in via the web site that wasn’t completely insipid, including a few (completely obvious) cheating spouses and one or two missing pet cases, the latter on the hopes that they might turn into something of the Bluebell level of interest. But alas, no; just your garden variety slipped leashes and open garden doors.

It wasn’t that he didn’t have methods for dealing with boredom; a seven-percent solution singing through his veins should take away some of the tedium, as it always had when he lived in Montague Street. But, to be honest, he didn’t even want that. He wanted to use his brain, not distract it with chemical intervention if that was not truly what it craved. But a few more days of this . . . .  


Right now, he was taking target practice, further abusing the wall that currently held Smiley, the face that he had once shot into Mrs. Hudson’s wallpaper. He was lining up a final shot, when he heard the unmistakable cadence of John’s steps ascend the staircase.

“Sherlock, what exactly do you think you’re doing?” John asked as he burst into the sitting room, dropping his bag to the floor and striding over to where Sherlock was not so much aiming as twiddling John’s service pistol. 

“I was bored,” Sherlock began, knowing that he’d been caught out. John was so tedious about his belongings, and his pistol seemed to top the list of Things Which Sherlock Should Not Touch. Sherlock surrendered it to John, recognizing the half-smile and sharp glint in John’s eye as signals that now was not the time to be flippant.

“You were bored,” John said. It was a statement, not a question. John pointed the gun carefully away and, with one motion, dropped the now-empty magazine from the gun.

“You were bored,” he repeated, pulling back the slide and checking to be sure the chamber was empty. He let it slide shut and walked to the mantel where Sherlock had laid the spare, loaded magazine.

“Let me tell you all about bored, Sherlock,” John said, smacking the magazine into place and racking the slide to chamber a round. He carefully aimed the gun at the wall, and very pointedly started speaking to Sherlock.

“Today, I had not one—“

The gun made a loud report as John shot at the wall, neatly landing a shot in one of Sherlock’s previous holes in Smiley.

“Not two—“

Another perfect shot.

“But three vomiting toddlers to deal with, one with a crying mother who was certain I was hiding Ebola from her.”

A third shot slammed home.

“Then, I had a case of seasonal allergies,” he said calmly, punctuating the statement with another shot.

“A case of athlete’s foot.”

Another shot.

“And what looked like a very promising STD, until I realized the guy couldn’t operate a zipper properly.”

Another shot.

“Where are my interesting cases, eh, Sherlock?”

“Why can’t I get a triple-A?”

Bang.

“Or a pheo?”

Bang.

“Or even just a bloody hot appy?”

Bang.

John paused briefly to look at Sherlock. “I’ve been to uni, to med school,” he said with increasing intensity.

Bang.

“To Barts, to Afghanistan.”

Bang.

“How many years of training and experience, and I can’t manage to diagnose anything that my grandmother couldn’t cure with some chicken soup and a trip to bloody Boots!”

The last shot rang out, joining its colleagues in their perfectly-centered holes.

John looked over at Smiley, nodded, and dropped the empty magazine into his palm. He pulled back the slide to check for an empty chamber, restored the now-empty magazine to its place, and clicked on the safety before tucking the pistol into the back of his belt. He turned his full attention to Sherlock.

“You,” he said, pointing, “had better find us a case. And I mean now. Because if I spend one more day in that surgery, I am not going to be responsible for my actions.”

And with that, he executed a perfect military turn and strode from the room, picking up his bag as he exited and climbed the stairs to his bedroom. Sherlock stood for a moment, and then carefully sat down at his own laptop and began re-checking the website. There had to be something out there with promise.

**Author's Note:**

> OK, just so we're clear, I'm using Moftiss physics in this thing, which means it is possible in Sherlock land to shoot one of these pistols at a wall and only damage the wall. 
> 
> It's really not. Really.
> 
> If you shoot one of these weapons at a drywall wall, you will shoot through the wall. That means that Mrs. Turner's married ones may well have decided to seek alternate lodgings sometime in season/series 1. If you shoot at a more solid wall, like cinderblock or other such material, there's every chance that your bullet will ricochet. Either one of those situations is more than a bit not good. So, don't go taking any boredom-reducing advice from either television or from fan fiction, 'K?


End file.
